Day Rider Diaries

Glimpse into the life of a part-time cowgirl

                                             THIS JOURNAL IS PROPERTY OF: 

5/12/24

Today, I shook a rancher’s hand, a binding, tactile signature confirming I’d buy a horse. I didn’t talk to Dan about it first. It’s been my lifelong dream to have a horse of my own, and with perfect, beautiful Jazzy on the table, I couldn’t let Dan get in the way. Plus, Jazzy and I will help him with his job. That justifies my behavior, at least a tiny bit, right?

Either way, I promised Dan I wouldn’t do that again; he was pretty pissed about it.

5/19/24

Jazzy’s previous owner told me that one time, a cow charged them and knocked them both to the ground. Jazzy hasn’t shown any hesitation to get between a cow and a hard place with me, at least not yet. But I feel very aware of the gravity of something I asked of her today: to put herself between my dog and danger. 

Red was behind us, and we pivoted to face the cow head on. I flailed my arms and screamed, doing anything I could think of to get Spot Face to turn around, rejoin the herd, and stop charging my dog. Jazzy and I must’ve resembled a warring centaur, but Spot Face was undeterred. The cow wheeled left, charged Red again, and chased her 50 yards. 

Of course, the excitement encouraged Pepper to go absolutely crazy. She ran circles around the fiasco. In that moment, I remembered Dan’s old dog Scout got trampled to death. If I didn’t break it up, Pepper could die, too. 

So we loped straight into the fight. Spot Face realized she didn’t want to battle a horse, and Jazzy and I chased her back to the herd out of revenge. She mooed desperately, maybe out of frustration, maybe because she’d lost her calf during her fit of rage. I didn’t give a fuck. I rode straight up to her and Jazzy bit her in the ass.

She’s so brave.

6/3/24

Oh my god, will Dan ever quit complaining about freaking washboard roads?! Every time we drive the Rainbow road, for the first seven miles, he just rants about all the “dumb people too lazy to put their vehicles in four-wheel drive on dirt roads.” He’s all “They’re causing the washboards!” and “When rear tires don’t engage, they just spin into the dirt!” and “It makes this god-awful road, which the county only blades in October, even worse. October! After an entire summer of use and in the middle of hunting season!”

I don’t want to start the day negatively, especially when I’m about to spend it outside. Just let it slide, dude. It’s June, the most beautiful time of year in Gunnison, and tourists aren’t going to stop renting shiny 2023 4Runners and driving their families around in two-wheel drive anytime soon. It’s like, yes, I know the roads are bad. But I don’t have the time or capability to inform everyone who uses dirt roads about proper etiquette, and he doesn’t, either.

6/4/24

I think Jazzy’s cinch is too big. Her current one is 32 inches, and the new purple one I ordered is only 28 inches. I hope it fits. Lavender — excuse me, Gen-Z purple, as the internet calls it — is so her color.

6/9/24

Other than a dog pant or a horse fart, the ride back to the truck this evening was quiet. It had just rained, and the soft, wet ground squished under Jazzy’s hooves. The scent of wet pine and damp earth swirled around us in the golden light. Every time we swiped against a tree branch, heavy water droplets plopped into my lap. It’s amazing how peaceful moving cows is when the cows aren’t around.

Recording this moment so I can include it in a story someday:

Dan beat me to the cattle guard. I dismounted, emptied the contents of my saddlebags onto the passenger seat, stuck Jazzy in the trailer with Walter, and grabbed a warm Coors Banquet out of the sun-temperature cooler. 

Before I got in, I told the dogs to load up, as usual. Pepper’s feathery tail flicked flecks of cow poop onto my cheek. I wiped it off with my filthy leather glove and cracked the Banquet open.

6/18/24

I hung One Horn’s head today. 

Last July, she keeled over in what’s now Dead Cow Meadow. She was one of the five or so horned cows in the entire herd. Bless Dan, because I told him how cool I thought her one-horned skull was, but when I found her, her body was far too disgusting to handle. And I handle some pretty repulsing stuff.

He returned to that pasture weeks later, after her flesh had peeled off. He dug a hole with her rib bone and buried her head under a big spruce, knowing that when we returned to Dead Cow Meadow the following year, the skull would be a bonafide euro mount. 

I dug it up a couple weeks ago. It didn’t fit on my saddle, so I carried her head horseback two miles, back to cow camp. Now, she’s at home, hanging outside our bunkhouse.

6/25/24

The sky opened on Jazzy, Red, Pepper, and I today. We had a goal to clear Poison Gulch of cattle, but I was unsure I’d be able to meet it based on how black the clouds were to the north.

We picked up cows at the first and second water tanks. They actually trailed out well and the ride started beautifully, despite the threat of oncoming weather. Then, a raindrop splatted on my nose. I donned my pink slicker just in time; moments later, the real rain came.

At first, it was a steady drizzle. It is monsoon season, after all. Afternoon storms are commonplace this time of year, so I’m always prepared. But not long after the gentle rain began, it started to fall in sheets. 

Water poured off the brim of my hat and onto my soaked horse. The collies looked like wet rats, but they were enjoying themselves. The cows didn’t seem to mind it. 

I shivered under my slicker, wearing nothing but a sweaty, cotton button-up. Of course, on today of all days, every wool shirt I own would be in the wash. At least the heat off Jazzy’s back warmed my seat.  

Just after the rain lightened up, the hail came. Pea-sized ice balls plummeted from the sky, indiscriminately pelting horses, dogs, cows, and human. My bare cheeks stung from the impacts. Jazzy kept closing her eyes. The collies were jogging ahead a bit, hiding under a tree, then running to catch up again. 

Since the cows were progressing well, it was time to take cover.

We found a wide spruce just off the cow trail that protected us from the brunt of the ice. But shortly after I dismounted, it was time to get back on; the storm was over. After an inch of precipitation accumulated, the sun peeked through the clouds. With the cows a few hundred yards in front of us, it was quiet enough to hear the hail melt.

I ate a few chunks because it was cold and tasted good. It’s not every day you get to enjoy ice water while cowboying.

7/1/24

I’ve had three dreams in the last four nights.

In the first dream, a bear family fed on chokecherries at the northwest corner of our north pasture. A mom and three cubs. Our neighbor hazed them on a side-by-side and the bears barreled towards our house.

I called the dogs inside, counting all eight of them as they slipped through the door. Knowing everyone was safe, I calmly looked out the window to watch the bears. Except, every dog had teleported back outside. Rosie was right in front of the deck door, ass full of bear bites, as the momma bear hovered a few feet away. 

Rosie could barely walk. She was obviously in shock. I screamed her name, trying to get her out of my sight line so I could shoot the bear with my pistol, but she couldn’t hear me; auditory exclusion, I suppose.

I woke up screaming her name. I woke up Dan, too.

After falling back asleep, I dreamt again. It was November, and Jazzy and I were hunting big game with a large group of people. I dismounted to do something, and when I came back, Jazzy collapsed on the ground. A huge, fleshy gash peeled away from her body. Broken ribs poked through. No one saw what happened, and she wouldn’t make it home.

Then I had a night of dreamless sleep.

In last night’s dream, Dan was dead. He had passed like a week prior, and I was in the throes of a painful grieving period. I packed up and moved all my belongings out of his house, trying to act normal in front of other people. Dan’s mom didn’t like me anymore. I kept on wanting to talk to Dan, but I couldn’t; he was gone. Rosie slept in my bed with me. I woke up feeling incredibly sad. 

What’s the point of these dreams? Did the upcoming archery elk season trigger them? Were they telling me that I love Rosie most, then Jazzy, then Dan? Or the other way around? Is there just a weird energy in the universe right now? 

Maybe I’m reading too much into this.

7/6/24

In the first group of cows I hit, one calf had a camp toilet stuck around his neck. You know those plywood squares with a hole cut in the middle that elk hunters build so they don’t have to sit on a log? I’m not sure what to call it besides a camp toilet.

We tried to catch the steer for three hours. If he grew much bigger, the necklaced commode would choke him to death. That little bastard foiled us every time. Dan and I eventually gave up, deciding we needed sedatives to catch him.

We named him Shitface.

7/11/24

Dan shot at a mountain lion today. I say “at” because he missed every shot he took.

Apparently, Dan was down some dark damp hole near Deep Hollow. He’d noticed some cow sign heading that direction, so he inspected it and verified that cows weren’t in there. It was so dense and nasty, he had to dismount Walter and tie him to a tree to walk the last 200 yards in. Stash followed him in, but when Dan walked back to his horse, his dog wasn’t behind him.

He yelled for Stash, who’s prone to sneak off to poop in private, hoping all he was doing was relieving himself. A few minutes later, Stash returned all hackled up and walking funny. Dan actually scolded him for being so weird and slow, and that’s when Dan saw the lion stalking his collie. 

It wasn’t a small lion, and it was about 25 yards away from Stash when Dan noticed it. Dan stood between the dog and the lion, screaming and cursing to convince it to leave, when he palmed his .45 with one hand and pulled the trigger. 

A cloud of dust exploded below the lion’s belly.

He shot four more times and watched four more clouds of dust explode. The lion didn’t egress; it crept even closer. 

The audacity!

Dan inserted more rounds into the cylinder, holding the pistol with his left hand and the ammo in his prosthetic right hook. He only got one or two more rounds in, given that he was highly stressed and refused to take his eyes off the cat. He let one more bullet fly into the dirt beneath the stalker, who finally decided that this dog was not worth the squeeze and slinked away.

I asked him why he didn’t maintain two points of contact on the gun; after all, he should know better. He’s a certified pistol instructor and a retired Naval Aviator.

He told me he thought he could do it one-handed. (Boys.)

Then I asked him why, after the first miss, he still didn’t shoot with both points of contact. He knew he was anticipating each shot because his bullet hit low. 

I guess it’s probably too much to assume that he was in a rational, decision-making mindset when this whole ordeal went down. Still, Stash’s life was on the line, and his ego got the best of him. So, I used his own words against him.

“You should fight the way you train.”

He didn’t appreciate that. But honestly, I probably shouldn’t be so sassy. After all, I couldn’t ride today because I had a few work meetings lined up. Maybe things would’ve gone differently had I been there to help.

But he should also consider carrying a semiautomatic and an extra loaded magazine.

7/17/24

I rode through my absolute favorite place on the permit today: Window Park. It’s a mile and a half away from the nearest road, and getting there requires bushwacking. There are almost always marmots whistling from a rocky crevice or ant-sized elk crawling across a distant meadow. And my god is it glorious; the view from the cliff’s edge is deliciously sublime. Sometimes I question whether its shimmering image is real.

My brother worked on the barbed wire fence that separates Window Park from the West Elk Wilderness. Two years ago, he found a geocache nestled against a large rock, an old joint and handwritten notes from backpackers sealed inside a Parmesan cheese container. One of them mentioned a nearby vortex. I haven’t found it, and I don’t intend to. First of all, I’m scared of sasquatches. Second, you don’t need to read the note about the vortex to feel like the veil is thin in Window Park. 

I can’t quite put my finger on it, but the air is strange there. It’s always windy, but I’m not sure if that’s because of the cliff or the eddying energy. Probably both. The only animals residing in Window Park are Canada jays, ground squirrels, and marmots. They’re all brave, vocal animals that are either issuing a warning or too dumb to leave. Maybe they’re spirits themselves.

7/20/24

You know how cows constantly have hot, soupy diarrhea? And how, when they get scared very suddenly, sometimes a little can come out? Well, Recky didn’t; at least, not until today when he absolutely blindsided a cow. The little heeler mix charged her and bit her in the ankle, hard. She didn’t see him coming, and he didn’t see her stream of green excrement, either. Literally, he scared the shit out of her.

It was in his eyes. It was up his nose. He tried to blink it away, but there was just too much coating his square little noggin. We were right next to a creek, so Dan kindly waterboarded him. He thrust Recky’s head into a deep pocket of water for a few seconds at a time, swishing it around to clear his crevices before lifting him back up and apologizing. He’d let Recky catch his breath and warn him that he had to do it again.

After about four rounds of dunking, Recky looked good as new.

7/26/24

Today, I earned the ultimate compliment: Cow Dog of the Day. 

The first nine hours of the ride were awful. Just imagine the absolute worst day of moving cows possible, then triple it. By hour 10, we were 15 miles in. The dogs gave up, the cows gave up, the horses gave up with only 400 yards left to go. All Dan, Ethan, Camden, and I had to do was get these stupid cows through a stupid wire gate and shut it behind them. An impossible task, apparently. 

I was hangry and out of patience — a dangerous combo. I hurled myself off Jazzy and hung her reins across my saddlehorn, knowing she’d follow behind the other horses. I spotted two green, baseball bat-sized aspen branches near my feet. Dual-wielding them in a melee-inspired tantrum, I tripped and screamed my way into the creek bottom.

My voice nearly gone, I squeezed out what volume remained in my diaphragm. The hoarse commands erupting from such a tiny, angry, stick-smashing body terrified the cattle. They leapt out of my way as I furiously crawled through mud and dog hair aspens, whacking anything and everything to declare my dominance. Suddenly, going through the wire gate seemed like the best idea in the world.

“You’re my hero!” Camden hollered at me from atop his horse.

“You owe me a beer!” I shouted back. 

The dogs, roused by my erratic energy, found their second wind. Pepper, Rosie, Red, Fly, Rip, Lulu, and Lish tore after the cows with me, barking and biting their way forward. I glanced up at the hillside, and there was Jazzy, looking at me while walking calmly behind Walter. I’d love to know what she was thinking. This bitch needs therapy, probably.

Finally, finally, those damn cows all went through the gate. We cheered. Ethan told me I’m officially the cow dog of the day.

I beamed.

7/31/24

Tonight, I closed my eyes and leaned into steamy well water streaming from the showerhead. Dust and dog slobber dripped down my chin and swirled around the drain. What a welcomed external rinse, so unlike the freezing rain that soaked my socks through my holey boots hours prior.

Conditioner plastered my split ends against my back while I scrubbed crud out from between my toes. Despite my fearlessness when fighting cattle and rough terrain, I always get the Sunday scaries. What is it about the ending of one week and the beginning of the next that’s so anxiety-inducing? Dan always reminds me of how being prepared combats feelings of inadequacy. Perhaps those scaries are just my mind encouraging me to contemplate tomorrow. But tomorrow comes with a dilemma of its own.

I have an editorial meeting, during which I’m expected to pitch a story to the group. They keep telling me I need to write about horses and cows and crazy adventures, the revelations I must have in the saddle. So many things must happen out there, they say. You have so much time to think about so many things.

“You must have so much to write about!”

But I’ve been wrestling with how to write about day riding. So many people fantasize about it, romanticize it. I haven’t watched Yellowstone, but it seems like everyone else has. The show seems to gift those who view it with connotations, assumptions, and some “understanding” of my life.

As a result, blonde yuppie voices declaring “You’re so lucky!” and “I’ve always dreamed of doing that!” echo in my head. I want to ask if they realize actual lives are on the line. “You want to shoot a cow seven times before it dies? You always dreamed of doing that?”

There are so many things that moving cows is not. But you know what moving cows is? Real. Physical labor is more grounding than daydreams. But perhaps we all need daydreams just the same. 

If I were to write about cowboying, it’d need to be real. Not fantasy. Not poetic, delicate “thoughts” that float around in a dreamscape where dogs are perfect and horses are graceful and Jeeps never break down. Honestly, I don’t have thoughts in the saddle.

It’s the only time my thoughts are completely silent. 

My toes harden into steel-rimmed hooves and my hands become two hyper dogs. I have eight ears and eight eyes and four mouths and four brains. Each one has a mind of its own.

Sometimes, riding a horse is like learning to walk. Your brain must wire a current through your spine, tell your new long legs to move that way or speed up or slow down. But the response time isn’t always right. Communications fail. But as you keep practicing, those currents gain strength, and neural pathways connect with your new legs and things smooth out. 

The same thing happens when your hands can pop off your body and fly in different directions. What is their flight path? How hard will they hit? Will they boomerang back when you need them? 

By the way — your hands, legs, and brains don’t speak English.

When I’m in the saddle, there’s so much exterior stimuli, there’s no room left in my skull for my thoughts to ping pong off its wet white walls. Sensory information electrifies every neuron like lightning striking a dead pine. 

Technically, we never touch anything. It’s impossible to touch fingertips to fingertips or toes to mud or ass to saddle. According to the Pauli exclusion principle, electronegativity keeps atoms from truly touching. Electron-electron repulsion means we never make contact with matter; we only feel the texture of atomic repulsion. 

There is no touch. Everything is feel. That’s what I remember from AP Chemistry.

How can you think when you feel multiple brains? Where does me end and horse begin? Where does dog end?

A bear can appear out of thin air. A bear can be ducklings. Ducklings can be 57-year-old barbed wire that’s one with a tree, a mess the previous cowboy never cleaned up. Barbed wire could be you.

How will horse react? How will dog? How will you? Analyze every possibility instantly and take action; you’re the leader. Horse-dog would not be in this situation if it weren’t for you anyways. It’s your responsibility to know them, feel them, and keep everyone safe in the face of danger or simply the task at hand.

There is no room for introspection. Subsequently, you won’t ~ f i n d  y o u r s e l f ~ when you’re in the saddle. You can’t. Instead, you find much, much more. Maybe I should write about that.

I wonder how Shitface is doing?

Gabriela Zaldumbide is a freelancer, Editor in Chief of Project Upland Magazine, and The Westrn’s Creative Director. She’s published with Wide Open Spaces, Forbes, Project Upland, Hunting Dog Confidential, Backcountry Journal, The Wildlife Professional, Bugle, Hook & Barrel, Gunnison Country Times, and more. Follow her on social media or consider subscribing to her Substack, Part-Time Cowgirl.